A Midsummer Night's Dream
by ceilidh65
Summary: Written for the NFA "Shakespeare Challenge". Tim McGee is having a very strange night! As always, I hope you enjoy - please R&R if you do!


A Midsummer Night's Dream by ceilidh

A/N: Hello again, all, and welcome to my latest story.

Now, this is new territory for me, because this _isn't_ a 'missing scene' or part of a serious/angsty series. No, this will (I hope!) just give everyone a good giggle.

It's been written for the NFA "Shakespeare Challenge" and... well, as you can guess from the title, Tim McGee is having a _very_ strange night!!!

The story takes place during season five, and although there aren't any spoilers, as such, I've made a reference to Cover Story and Hometown Hero. There's also little tips of the hat to The Wizard of Oz, Quantum Leap, and - yes, even Doctor Who!!

Like I say, our sweet Timothy is having a very strange night!! :o)

As always, I hope you enjoy - and special thanks to Colleen, for giving my plot bunnies such a wonderful place to play!

:o)

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A Midsummer Night's Dream

Cradling his chin in his hands, Tim McGee stared at the sheet of paper in front of him, and frowned. Jeez, of all the hobbies that he could have chosen to follow, why on earth had he gone for writing? More to the point, what the hell had possessed him to make a second career out of it?

Oh, the money was handy, of course, it had let him move into this palatial new apartment, but – well, to keep those royalty checks coming in, he kinda had to write something _first_ to earn them.

After the traumatic events surrounding the launch of Rock Hollow, he'd sworn blind that his writing days were over. An emotional heart-to-heart with Gibbs over late night shots of bourbon had convinced him otherwise.

Aside from finding a tower of supportive strength, Tim McGee had learned two valuable lessons that night. One, you never, _ever_, gave up on your dream. And the second? Well, he had no head for bourbon.

According to Gibbs, he'd started singing 'What Shall We Do With The Drunken Sailor?'

_All_ of its verses.

All at the top of his notoriously off key voice.

At just gone three in the morning.

Gibbs had, no doubt, considered all manner of things to do with a drunken junior agent. Luckily for said junior agent, he'd folded onto the living room floor, in a hiccupping heap, before he could carry any of them out.

Instead, with an astonishing degree of mercy, Gibbs had slung his own drunken sailor onto the couch – greeting him the next morning with a fatherly grin, a glint in his eye, and evilly deceptive benevolence.

_He_'_d_ make breakfast. That was his duty as host, confidante, and counsellor. But 'guests' had to do the washing up, and – yeah, it _had_ been too good to be true. Yes, those pancakes _had_ been delicious – but Gibbs had used _six_ batter-caked saucepans to make them.

As far as Tim could remember, it had taken him, and his hangover, most of the morning to scrub them to meet Gibbs' grinning approval. Just like his crash in the Camaro, though, that night-before-the-morning-after was still a merciful blank.

Rather like this piece of paper, Tim now sourly reflected, still glaring at the typewriter in front of him.

His latest deadline was fast approaching, and he just couldn't get this latest chapter to work. And of all the times to get writer's block, it had to be on one of the hottest nights of the summer so far. Even with the air conditioning going at full blast, his living-cum-writing room still felt like a sauna.

Well, living room at least, Tim dryly corrected himself. The writing bit had gone on infuriating hold. Not even his faithful old Remington, or his gorgeous new Regency desk, was bringing him any inspiration tonight.

Growling in frustration at his lack of progress, Tim then glanced down to the source of an unexpected chorus – finding it impossible not to smile as Jethro's ears swivelled, like two furry radar towers, towards him.

Friends might come, friends might go, and your boss might need six saucepans to make pancakes – but as long as you fed him, took him for walkies, and tickled his ears, the world's soppiest dog was your friend for life.

Panting up at him, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and snuffly-nosed, he was quite the comedian too – already rolling onto his back as Tim reached down to give his ears a 'thanks, pal' scratch. And since he'd earned it, in his own doggy-panty way – yeah, what the hell, he'd get a tummy-rub too.

"What do _you_ think, McMutt? You think I'm gonna make this deadline?" he asked at last – pulling a face as a full force doggy-sneeze sent sprays of something unmentionable onto his legs.

"So that's a no-" he muttered, fighting to keep his face straight for the giggle-threaded follow up. "And how many times do I need to tell you? Yes, it _is_ nice and meaty, but my leg is _not_ a bone!"

Rolling his eyes as a ticklishly licking tongue continued to torment his tibia, Tim then sighed – ruefully wondering who he'd upset enough to leave him with the world's most sadistic boss, _and_ dog.

Oh, and the world's most impatient publisher, he sourly reminded himself. Let's not forget that.

Still tousling Jethro's ears, Tim sighed again while tiredly rubbing his other hand over his eyes. He really needed sleep, a cold drink, and some blessed inspiration – not necessarily in that order.

With that in mind, and with the first and third proving so elusive, he finally settled for item two – pointedly ignoring Jethro's growl of protest for the loss of his 'bone' as he rose from his chair and padded into the kitchen.

Opening his fridge, he started to lift out a bottle of wine – reluctantly, but wisely, putting it back. Until he learned to either handle his liquor, or sing in tune, alcohol, of _any_ kind, was a _definite_ no-no.

Settling instead for much safer cranberry juice, Tim carried its carton, and a clean glass, back with him into the living room. Placing those on his couchside table, he then moved over to one of his many bookcases – browsing its contents, and finally picking out a well worn hardback, before stretching out on his couch.

Groaning slightly, as ninety pounds of German Shepherd landed on top of him, Tim then grinned – dutifully scratching Jethro's favourite tickle-spot as he sipped his drink. It tasted a bit sharper than usual, but it was still refreshing enough, especially over ice.

Pouring himself a refill, Tim settled back into the cushions behind him, sipping his drink while he searched for inspiration.

Comfy, cosy, and snuggled under Jethro's quilt-like warmth, his eyes soon started, inevitably, to droop.

Ten minutes later, Tim McGee's subconscious let itself out for some wickedly mischievous playtime.

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As he opened his eyes and squinted curiously around him, the frown on Tim McGee's face deepened. Dorothy might have had trouble with that tornado, but a trip to Oz was _nothing_ compared to this.

He'd woken up, with a _thumping_ headache, and found himself lying outside a _very_ familiar theatre.

It was big, and circular, with whitewashed walls, and a famously open roof, which could only mean –

– yes, through what he _hoped_ was his own imagination, he'd woken up in sixteenth century England.

With astonishing realism, he'd somehow travelled back in time, into a truly inspirational era – a line that not even _he_ could believe he was saying sneaking out anyway, as he sat cautiously upright.

"Tonto, I don't think we're in Kansas any more-"

*wuff*

Oh, you _had_ to be kidding!

Staring incredulously behind him, Tim felt his eyes widen, threatening to roll clear out their sockets. Tiny Tonto had… well, grown a bit. In fact, he'd grown into a curiously familiar German Shepherd.

Having Jethro with him, though, was a comforting feeling. At least he had a tangible link back to reality. And in a world where he simply did _not_ belong, Tim McGee needed all the protection he could get.

Still, at least he was dressed for that time. Rather dashingly too, he observed, studying himself in startled 'hey, not bad' approval. Not exactly Armani, of course, but – well, they didn't _have_ Armani in sixteenth century England.

But at least a lace-neck shirt, and comfortably tailored trousers, placed him in the 'better off' bracket. From what he could remember of his junior high English class, that made life in this era a _lot_ easier. It meant he came from a fairly wealthy family, mirroring the privilege he'd had in his own time, and -

- whoa, back it up there, McTimeWarp, you're still _in_ your own time, you're just _dreaming_ here!

At least, Tim _hoped_ this was a dream. As he glanced nervously around him, he had unsettling doubts. All these sights, even the smells around him, even the night-lit London skyline, looked _awfully_ real. And he still had this nauseating headache, as if he'd stepped off a playground roundabout too quickly.

If Tony were here, of course, he'd start raving about time-travelling, fate-changing scientists, but – well, unless his parents knew something that he didn't, Tim was fairly sure he was _no_ Dr Beckett.

_Another_ kind of Doctor, perhaps? Now there was a revelation that even DiNozzo would baulk at.

From Elf Lord to Time Lord. Oh yes, Tim mused through a widening grin, what fun _that_ would be! For starters, he'd dump DiNozzo on a planet where little brothers could deliciously turn the tables – making life a teasing, taunting hell for their big brothers, instead of the traditional, other way around.

And Gibbs would be stuck in a time-looping Groundhog Day of washing up his _own_ damn saucepans.

Still giggling at the thought of such perfect, but sadly impossible payback, Tim sighed and stood up – an unmistakeable jingle drawing his eyes down to his waist, and the pouch that hung from his belt.

Well, whatever tricks his subconscious was playing on him, at least he still had money to live on – a reassuring amount of it too, Tim observed, carefully counting the vari-sized coins in his hand.

Okay, he had the benefits of a privileged upbringing, and a promisingly heavy pouchful of currency. Time, he decided, feeling an excited smile spread helplessly across his face, to start enjoying himself. After all, he was somehow living in the time of one of his childhood heroes, a true master of literature.

Until his warped subconscious took him back to reality, he was going to enjoy every last second of it.

With new energy, and with Jethro, as ever, hugging his heels, Tim set off to explore his new world – almost corkscrewing his head down into his shirt, as he struggled to take all of its many wonders in.

Jeez, he'd never realized that Shakespeare's most famous theatre was as massive as this! It was beautiful, too. _Stunningly_ beautiful, a true testimony to sixteenth century workmanship.

All the pictures he'd ever seen of it really didn't do this magnificent arena for the arts justice, and –

– and as he continued to gawp around him, he just couldn't see what, or _who_, was behind him.

*whump*

Startled out of his subconscious wits, Tim spun around, already stammering out a mortified apology – all ability to speak, or stammer, or just plain breathe, deserting him in a moment of pure wonder.

Because there in front of him, just as every picture of him had ever portrayed, stood his childhood hero. And how did you greet the one and only, if rather puzzled, William Shakespeare? Hell, how else?

"Forrrrr-_sooooth_!!"

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If ever there was a moment where Tim McGee wished the ground could swallow him up, this was it.

Not only had he collided with one of the greatest writers ever known, he'd trodden on his toes too – and followed _that_ double faux pas up with a finale that would surely see him carted off to Bedlam.

Forsooth? For-_sooth_?!?!? Oh yes, McDouble-Degree-Novel-Writing-Genius, _real_ smooth.

He just hoped his second attempt to apologize would come out with more coherence than the first. Well, his _mouth_ was working, doing a great impression of a goldfish, but no words were coming out. When they finally did, in another tumble of stammering gibberish, Tim dearly wished they hadn't.

"I – I – I mean, it's… it's, um… y-_you-_"

Luckily, the great Bard was clearly used to tongue-tied fans making complete idiots of themselves – a two step retreat that Tim was sure was the start of a dash for safety turning, to his surprise, into an elaborate bow.

More astonishingly still, there was no irritation, just amusement, in the flow of words that followed.

"Aye, young sire, it is. Fare ye well, this glorious night?"

Fare he _what_?!? Ah yes, the sixteenth century equivalent to 'how's it going' in the twenty first. Okay, with that safely under his belt, Tim took a deep breath, then another, and tried again.

"Um, aye, sir. Aye. Um. Verily-"

He'd done his best, of course, frantically trying to remember the phrases he'd learned at school, but – jeez, that shaky junior high performance of Romeo And Juliet had sounded _nothing_ like this.

No wonder the great Bard was now staring at him, as if he'd just dropped off another planet – casting Jethro the same, mildly curious glance, before re-meeting Tim's still nervous eyes.

"For truth, young sire, 'tis a strange dialect that you speak! And a striking beast in your company-"

Tim's smile faded at that. Dialect equalled accent, an as yet _unknown_ accent, and… uh-oh.

An American accent, in sixteenth century London, with a breed of dog that didn't even exist yet. Oh yes, that trip to Bedlam was imminent now – especially if Jethro decided to 'help him out'. Even in your dreaming subconscious, spritzing Shakespeare, and mauling the local law enforcers, was a definite, non negotiable no-no.

Then again, his homeland continent _was_ known at this time, it just had… well, a different name. Now all he had to do was remember enough of his high school history to dig himself out of this cavernous hole, and –

"Aye, sir, I am… um, of the New World. Yes! Yes! The New World, as is my… um, companion-"

Five seconds passed. Ten. And then, at last, two impeccable eyebrows rose in approval.

"The New World! Then, young sire, you are rare guests indeed, and welcome!"

– whew.

Releasing his breath, and gratefully taking another to replace it, Tim smiled cautiously back – blinking at the hand in front of him before, in a daze of pure relief, he accepted it, and shook it.

Oh boy, he was shaking hands with William Shakespeare! _The_ William Shakespeare!

To Tim's further amazement, though, the great Bard seemed as star-struck now as he was – his next words surprising him, so completely, that Tim had to physically pinch himself to believe he'd heard them.

"Aye, young sire, as we dine together, you must tell me the wonders of this brave new world!"

Okay, even for a dream, this was getting _seriously_ freaky. Shakespeare, _the_ Shakespeare, was inviting him to _dinner_?

He'd say yes in a heartbeat, of course, but… well, there was one rather tricky point to consider – the plaintive perfection of puppy dog eyes reminding him that Jethro needed feeding too.

Luckily, one of the greatest writers ever known was also something of a secret dog lover – a fact that, to Tim's silent amusement, had clearly passed all those school history books by.

Then again, this _was_ all a dream. This _was_ his subconscious, taking him on this incredible journey. So if he could meet Shakespeare in this dream, if Shakespeare could take _him_ to dinner, then – well yes, everything else that his mischievous imagination threw at him had to be possible too.

Little wonder, then, that Tim McGee was now smiling, so happily, as he watched the impossible scene before him. William Shakespeare was shaking hands, or rather paws, with a dog that was years, in fact _centuries_, beyond his time.

And there was a picture, Tim proudly observed, that you would never see in _any_ history book – Shakespeare, on his knees, giving a happily wiggling German Shepherd the mother of all tummy rubs.

As he followed the great Bard towards a nearby inn, Tim McGee felt a glow of pure happiness well up inside him. If this was his very own, midsummer night's dream – no, he just did _not_ want to wake up yet!

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Staring at the glorious feast in front of him, Tim McGee didn't know whether to eat it or climb it.

There was nothing wrong with his appetite, of course, there never had been, but – jeez, he'd never seen so much food!

A doggie bag, _if_ it had existed in Elizabethan England, would have come in real handy now, and – ah yes, he kept forgetting, he already _had_ the doggie, a very _big_ doggie, so he _didn_'_t_ need the bag.

And, Tim dryly noted, his very own portable waste disposal unit was, as usual, doing him proud. The finest cuts of chicken, pheasant, beef and sausage – yes, McMutt was happily demolishing the lot.

He could almost read the disdainful question that, if he could speak, Jethro would now sniffily ask him.

'_Jeez_, _how come you never feed me like this at home_?!?'

Pulling a face back at him, Tim then leaned back in his chair and subtly, he hoped, loosened his belt. He hated to be beaten by anyone, or anything, but – yes, this sumptuous banquet had managed it. If he tried to force any more of it down, Tim knew it would swiftly make a _very_ embarrassing re-appearance.

Instead, through a pleasant hum of spiced wine, he blinked at the politely amused face beside him – his eyes widening even more, in startled surprise, as subconscious fantasy merged with the frustrations of his reality.

"Aye, 'tis strange fate, Timothy, that we meet tonight! Two authors, seeking sweet inspiration!"

Still blinking, Tim then stared down into his tankard, trying to analyze its hallucinogenic contents. Well, this was a turn up for the proverbial books. The Bard, suffering from _writer_'_s_ block? This was _Shakespeare_, for crying out loud, and… damn it, what the hell was _in_ this stuff?!?!?

He thought he could taste a hint of cranberry in there, and… yep, another cautious sip confirmed it. Sixteenth century cranberries made gorgeous wine, but they had one almighty kick to them!

It was taking all his concentration to remember what he'd just been told, let alone coherently answer its point. Even when he _did_ finally manage it, Tim still couldn't be sure that he was making much sense.

"Aye, it – it is, sire, p-passing strange, and… I – I mean, it is… fr-frustrating-"

Hoping the soft hiccup that had ended his magnificent speech was just his imagination, Tim paused – breathing a silent sigh of relief when the great writer's face broke into a smile of rueful agreement.

"Aye, sweet Timothy, ours is a wretched craft! A cruel mistress, to deny us our rest-"

Tim gaped at that. So the mighty Shakespeare had been cursed with the publisher from hell too?

'_Yeah_, _Will_, _tell me about it-_'

Keeping _that_ thought wisely to himself, Tim just nodded while taking a deep drink of water – waiting for a few moments, giving it time to clear his head, as he toyed with his insatiable curiosity.

Well, he _was_ here, albeit in his dreams, enjoying a quiet dinner with the greatest writer in history. And if you couldn't ask Will Shakespeare how _he_'_d_ coped with writer's block, who _could_ you ask?

So yes, after taking a nerve-steadying breath, then another, Tim stepped, once more, into the breach.

"And when you… I – I mean, when you _have_ to write something, and - and you just can't, what do you do?"

Two elegant eyebrows rose in surprise, and for an awful moment, Tim thought he'd blown it – hence the grin of sheer relief that crossed his face, for the hearty laughter that eventually followed.

"Ah yes, young friend! So much in our hearts to express, such joys to share, but so short the time-"

Glancing around them, as if he were about to reveal the fate of the famous lost play, he then smiled.

"I yield to sweet slumber, Timothy, and let my sweet muse inspire me-"

Okay, so _his_ muse wasn't being _quite_ so productive, but – well, Tim McGee wasn't complaining. If only in his dreams, he'd met his childhood hero, he'd met William Shakespeare, and – _ooooh_.

Judging by a flirty smile from the serving girl who'd brought their meal, his luck was about to change.

Still watching her, not knowing whether to be flattered or fearful of his life, Tim swallowed – _hard_. She'd been undressing him with her eyes from the moment he'd sat at her table. God knew what she was doing to him now.

Thank God this was a dream, not real life, or Abby would grab this buxom wench by the throat, and –

– and this cranberry wine, Tim McGee noted through a gently dimming mind, was _really_ starting to hit.

His last, reasonably coherent thought was how enjoyably this serving girl now fell into his lap – her mischievous giggles, and an equally mischievous voice, following him into a depthless void.

"Ah, parting is such sweet sorrow, Timothy! Sweet dreams, my friend! Sweet dreams-"

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Wherever that tongue was travelling, it was driving Tim McGee to his helplessly wriggling distraction. From an especially soft spot on his neck, then up to his earlobes, then down onto his collarbone, and… oooooh, that _really_ tickled!

His toes were wiggling with pleasure now. Oooh, that snug warmth on top of him, that skilfully teasing tongue, that tufty fur, rubbing against his nose, and… whoa, back it up, McRomeo.

_Fur_?!?!?

_Gaaaah_!! The gorgeous girl of his subconscious dreams was a freakin' _werewolf_!

Waking with a helpless yelp, Tim then stared up, into a pair of quizzically curious eyes – groaning again, but in pure relief now, as the stuff of B-movie nightmares turned into an unmistakeable grin.

Okay, so all those glistening teeth were still a mite unnerving, but – no, this was his Jethro alright. This was _his_ apartment. And this, he realized in slight disappointment, was an abrupt return to reality.

Sixteenth century London was gone. His childhood hero was gone, and Bet – oh, she'd _definitely_ gone. A lapful of gorgeous, curvaceous woman had been replaced by a lapful of slobbering German Shepherd, so – yes, however much he loved his Jethro, Tim McGee couldn't help but feel slightly short-changed.

But then Jethro 'kissed' the tip of his nose, as only Jethro could, and Tim couldn't help but grin – gently tousling that special spot between Jethro's ears as he lay back into the couch's armrest, sleepily reflecting on a truly unforgettable night.

Yes, of course he'd been dreaming, he'd always _known_ he'd been dreaming, but – it had felt so _real. _Every minute – no, every _second_, of that incredible trip back through time had been so _amazingly_ real.

The only logical explanation for it was that pleasant hum of spaceyness that you tended to get when you –

– drink down a whole carton of cranberry juice that's two months beyond its 'use by-' date.

Still staring at that damning smudge of ink, Tim then groaned, giving himself an almighty Gibbs-slap, and wincing even more as his head painfully protested.

Damn, this was embarrassing. Two degrees, a genius level IQ, a brain the size of a planet – and the eyesight of Mr Magoo.

That last part especially made Tim wince. As if DiNozzo's teasing McNames weren't annoying enough, now he was using them on _himself_?!?

Yes, this was bad. No, this was _very_ bad. No, this was potentially terminally embarrassing. Timothy McGee, MA, BSc, had gotten himself spaced out on over-fermented cranberry juice.

Luckily, only he and McMutt knew about it – and Tim was determined to keep it that way.

"Okay, McMutt, listen up-" he said at last, holding each side of Jethro's face with all the authority he could reasonably manage. "I did _not_ get spaced out on that juice, okay? This is gonna be _our_ little secret. Not a word, or a wuff, to _any-_one. Not Gibbs, or Abby, or Ziva, and _definitely_ not Tony! Deal?"

That tone _might_ have worked on Sarah, _if_ he was lucky, but – well, this _wasn_'_t_ his blackmailable sister. This was an ex Navy search dog, who could sniff out drugs, _and_ deception, from several states away. And as he'd quickly discovered, McMutt had a wickedly mischievous streak to him.

So when Jethro panted like that, barked, slobbered his face, then leapt off the couch, Tim knew what was coming – hauling himself upright, with another groan of protest, as he fumbled over the floor for his shoes.

Yes, of _course_ Jethro would keep this little secret between them – but _only_ if they went for walkies.

Still, it was a gorgeous, bright sunny morning – and God knew, he needed the air to clear his head. And on the way home, of course, he could pick up some weekend supplies, and some fresh, _non_ spacey-outy juice.

But as so often happened with best laid plans, this one went slightly astray on him too. Not that Tim minded. In fact, as a grin of sheer delight spread over his face, he didn't mind at all.

Aside from its greater size for Jethro, and its closer location to the Yard for him, one of the reasons he'd moved into his new condo was… well, what he'd found on his very first scouting trip around his potentially new neighbourhood.

Two blocks away, right next to a truly convenient convenience store, he'd found _this_. A massive emporium, an Aladdin's cave of antiques and oddities, that you could spend _hours_ browsing around, without anyone bugging you to either buy something or go.

Except there'd be no browsing today. For just this one time, this would be an instant, impulsive sale.

Still staring, mesmerised, through its main window, Tim could barely believe his eyes. There, taking pride of place in its latest display, was a framed painting of a _very_ familiar theatre. Painted in oils, and nightlit against a star-dotted sky, the Globe had never looked so magnificent.

The store had only just opened, too, and – oh yes, this really was too priceless a chance to miss!

Quickly checking that the price wasn't _that_ far out of his limit, Tim then strode through the door – emerging a few minutes later with a well wrapped parcel, and a grin that almost split his face in half.

He already knew the perfect place for this gorgeous keepsake, and – yes, almost running through his living room to find out for sure, he struck gold there too. Hung on the wall-rail, right next to his desk, this was the writer's inspiration to beat _all_ others.

In fact, Tim noted, feeling the proverbial lightbulb 'ding' above his head, it was already working – his fingers barely keeping up with the tide of plotlines that now poured out of his imagination.

Four key-clattering hours later, Tim leaned back in his chair to read through his efforts – a smile of pure joy spreading over his face as he glanced up, again, to the picture beside him. That curse of writer's block – yes, it was truly past him now, he'd _never_ be troubled by it again.

In this beautiful portrait, he'd found a _lifetime_ of inspiration, and with Jethro curled snugly around his feet – yes, as he set, so happily, back to work again, Tim McGee knew it was going to be a _very_ good day.


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